


You've Got Served

by azcendio



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, You've Got Mail AU, because of requests and such, it's just fluff, ok now it's not so much fluff but still happy train choo choo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2018-12-15 23:32:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11816484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azcendio/pseuds/azcendio
Summary: a You've Got Mail AU where Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy are lawyers who manage to always be on opposing sides of the court, and moral standing.  Yet, when their names are stripped down to ridiculous online usernames and they keep business separated from pleasure, they actually can stand one another- nay, like one another.  How bothersome.





	1. Justice is Blind

_01:36 What book has you up so late?  Feels like something I should read._

Hermione is still grinning, ten hours after such a mundane message was received, and a little too promptly opened, on her AOL account.  Her cheeks are flourishing with all kinds of pinks and reds, and it’s absolutely embarrassing how she’s there, ten hours after the fact, after not replying - pretending to be asleep, what a ninny -, staring at this message.  In her office.  Her place of business.

“Oi, these documents aren’t going to sign themselves,” someone calls, and Hermione’s blush deepens the longer Harry stares.  How long had she zoned out?  Had she even seen him come into the room?  He looks like he’s been sitting there, collecting dust for eons.

“Sorry, I was thinking about how to reply to this…” She fumbles, and hastily closes out of the chat window.  “Very important email.”

“Oh, of course,” Harry says a little too certainly, with a little too much of a glint in his eyes.  The spark of mischief is intensified through his glasses.  He shuffles the files on his lap and places the cases of most importance on Hermione’s desk.  Pretends to not notice how Hermione’s noticed that _he’s_ noticed something.  

It’s all very childish.

Her continuing blush, racing down the playground of her neck and chest is the most childish of all.

“Percy is really pushing to close the Stockton class action ASAP,” Harry continues a conversation Hermione had, in a way, been keeping up with despite her distractions.  She rolls her eyes and nearly stabs her pen through the stack of other, _paying_ , clientele dear Percy wants them to focus on.

“My one pro bono,” she mutters, “I wonder why.”

Harry grimaces, eyes wide with sarcastic wonder as he leans back in the chair.  The leather complains enough for the both of them.

“It really is a wonder,” he replies, but his thoughts are already somewhere else, somewhere rather dangerous.  He adjusts his glasses, as though to get a better, clearer look at Hermione.  

“The real wonder, though, is what book kept you up so late?  Do you feel it’s something he should read?”

“Do those glasses give you x-ray vision?” Hermione snaps in return to the husky mockery of her _private life_.  Harry smirks.  This is, after all, his favorite part of the day: torment Hermione hour- the hour that never actually ends.  

As if it wasn’t his and his wife’s idea for Hermione to socialize more, to ‘put herself out there’.  Ginny was the one who’d made her AOL account while she’d been away in the bathroom.  She’s the only one who could think up the horrendous screenname: booksnob4life.

It’s a miracle anyone talked to her on that blasted thing.

“I wish,” Harry sighs.  “You just have a nasty habit of leaving your computer screen on when you go to the bathroom.”

Like wife, like husband.

“You rotten little-!”

“I was just doing my job,” Harry defends himself, arms raised and pleading innocent until proven guilty.  “Turning in the affidavit you needed, and there it all was.”

Hermione’s head is smack against the desk, affidavit stuck to her forehead, before he’s anywhere near done laughing.

“Who is this dashing i-object-to-idiots?”  Harry’s voice is too bubbly and sweet; this moment is obviously just _too rich_ for him.  “He sounds devastatingly charming.”

She groans into the mountains of paperwork.  Suddenly, they look much less painful than before- when compared to this.

“He’s actually quite charming, intellectual and witty, and someone I’ll never meet - if Percy has his way.”

That grants her a snort.  She glares up from her slouched position; her back is already aching, and her hands itching to sort through the mess.  

“Please, this mound will be gone by three,” Harry completely disregards her moans.  Hones in on the nitty gritty detail: “So, you’re saying you’ve never met this guy?”

She frowns and sits up, corrects her posture and turns her attention to work, even if it’s the farthest thing from her partner’s mind.  “Exactly.”

His ridicule and peaked curiosity is reverberating off the walls.  “Have you made any plans to….?”

Hermione’s face is deadpanned, eyes dull with the blunt knowledge that: “We’re both lawyers.  You figure out that algebraic mess.”

She’s already turning to her computer, opening an endless stream of Word and Excel pages.  Anything to avoid that one beeping notification at the corner of her screen.  

“You haven’t even brought it up, have you?”

“No.”  Hermione doesn’t mean to sigh, but she does.

It’s rare: this feeling of disappointment and nervousness.  It only pays a visit when she thinks about this faceless, nameless person who she’s confided in for the last six weeks.  Who she wants to come face-to-face with, to see and hear in front of her, to not have to wait for her computer to connect to the internet before she can say hello to him.  

Who she equally is afraid of ever meeting, of having the ideal cruelly extinguished by reality.

She deals in laws of man and nature, and facts.  And that blinking little light on her computer screen is too artificial to trust.

“Well,” Harry replies, clucking his tongue as he stands up to leave; job done quite a while ago, and snark breaching his allowed, daily quotient.  “You should at least give him a book to read while he waits.”

He’s laughing again at the sour patch look on Hermione’s face, as if her love life - or complete lack thereof, is such a freaking riot.

That blinking notification is winking at her now, insistently begging her to “notice me, notice me!”  As if it isn’t constantly distracting her.

Hermione grimaces, thinking: maybe her love life is a freaking riot.  If she can’t even reply to a simple book recommendation out of fear of “the ideal”.

She opens up the AOL interface and stares at that message again, thanking any and all gods that i-object-to-idiots is not online to witness this ridiculously late, and pathetic response.

Pushing down the equally pathetic anxiety over literary scrutiny, Hermione takes a deep breath and types her reply.

_22:15 You in court must be a sight.  Pitiful, really, the fool who goes up against you - this coming from personal experience.  In fact, I’m still licking my wounds from the last duel; is it really so wrong to love Jack Kerouac as I do?_

_22:15 I wish I could see you in action._

_22:19 Actually, I wish I could just see you._

_22:21 You know what- screw it.  Cup of coffee.  You and me.  Foreseeable objection completely overruled.  I want to see you._

“Objection!”

Hermione’s voice fills the courtroom twice-fold, but its inhabitants - especially Judge McGonagall - are quite accustomed to the volume.  The only one who seems bothered by it is the man standing opposite her; he is a smirk in a brown suede suit, reeking of wealth and privilege, defending the undefendable companies that seek to manipulate and exploit the disadvantaged populace.

In short: he is everything Hermione abhorrently opposes.  Abhorrently.  Did she mention: abhorrently?

“On what grounds, exactly?” Draco Malfoy drolls, his posture never once shifting away from the jury.  He just barely turns his head in her general direction, silver locks carefully smoothed into place so as not to stir when he does.  However, something about his demeanor has shifted.  There’s a tightness to the usually casual smile on his face - he always tries to work the jury with his _disgustingly transparent_ charm - and something crackles to life in his eyes.  

He’s watching her intently, even if he doesn’t mean to.

She challenges his stare with one of her signature courtroom glares; quick, efficient, deadly as daggers.  It’s gone before a single eye in the jury can detect something amiss about the darling, if a bit passionate, lawyer.

Everyone in the room has lost track of how many times they’ve run this bit.

“Besides the fact that you have blatantly disregarded giving us any notice of this _new_ witness?” Hermione shoots across the court, directly between Draco’s narrowed eyes. “You’re clearly now _leading_ said witness.”

The only response this apparently warrants is the laziest of smiles.  Hermione catches a few jury members, men and women alike, melting at the sight.  She holds in her vomit.

“Your honor, forgive me if I was too much of a gentleman,” Draco responds gracefully, ducking his head down in an adamant, completely false, display of embarrassment.  “My witness is tired after a very long flight just to be here, and I’m simply trying to be helpful.”

Helpful.

Hermione’s nails dig into the case file in her hands.  She can feel Harry’s eyes drinking it all in, unsure whether to be amused or utterly frustrated; this kind of back-and-forth banter and jury-fondling has been going on the entire week at trial, and months before then too.  

Hermione’s feelings on the matter are quite settled: she hates this man with every fiber of her being; her very tolerant, open-minded, loving, I-see-through-your-bullshit-you-cunning-bastard being.  Hatred and these very qualities can co-exist.  Hermione’s determined for it to be so.

So yeah, she hates him.

Judge McGonagall doesn’t seem too easily persuaded either, and almost- _almost_ rolls her eyes at him.  Hermione stills the unprofessional smile that this wrongfully encourages.

“Mr. Malfoy, being a gentleman entails knowing when and how to speak.  Talking a little less, and letting your witness speak more, would be much more helpful- don’t you think?” The judge responds calmly, if a bit exhausted by the ongoing banter.  She adjusts her glasses, but remains lax and leaning in her seat.  “Sustained.  Jury is to strike the last question from the record.”

Now that got the smile out of Hermione.  She’s grinning, a child winning the parent’s favor.  Her gloating becomes very visible when Draco’s carefully placed, fresh-pressed for company smile twitches, unnerved.  He seems to feel the happiness vibrating off Hermione in ridiculous waves because his steel eyes snap onto hers.  Positively glowering.  

She gets a sense that the hatred is mutual.

But either way, Hermione persuades her face to conduct itself professionally, and rolls her lips between her teeth to smooth them out.  To compose herself.  But she just hasn’t gotten this much joy from an opponent’s loss in ages.

Ridiculous as it is: she can’t wait to let her date know he has yet another fool to pity.

Perhaps it’s her giddiness to go, her impatience to meet a man she hardly knows, that makes today’s court appearance even snappier than usual.  She allows Draco no leeway with his roundabout questions, and shows no mercy to those on the stand.  She wants to close today’s testimonies as swiftly and efficiently as possible.

Harry has taken notice of the extra gasoline Hermione’s poured on her own fire.

“When was the last time you exhaled?” Harry mutters when she sits down.

“I told you, I don’t want the jury to siddle too long with his ‘experts’.”

Harry nods, his lips pursed in an odd twist of humor and affirmation.  “Right, the quickfire approach.  Has nothing to do with your _rendezvous_ at 12 o'clock.”

Her eyes dart between the notes she’s scribbling down in a race against herself, and the opposing table.  Draco has yet to stand up and approach the prosecution’s first expert, is still calmly and lazily glancing through the file she’d been forced to give his legal team, his client absolutely at ease- slender form lounging as though he’s got nothing in the world to lose, and she nearly snaps her pen in two.

“Sure, fine, it has something to do with that.  But it also wouldn’t be so wild to want to keep today’s session back on track as much as possible.  So we can have recess at the usual time, but it would seem _Draco_ ,” the name comes out in a nasty little whisper fuming with frustration, “once again is playing games.”

She’s glaring daggers again, and he must’ve sensed at some point her increased urgency, because today he’s being exceedingly tedious; more so than per usual.

“To think, I once thought the law school rivalry would die a graceful death.”

That comment bestows upon him quite the incredulous look from Hermione.  She’s still got fireballs for eyes, and he nearly shrivels into dust.

“You know very well that’s not what this is, Harry,” she snaps, trying to keep the whisper low but Judge McGonagall is looking between both parties, and her watch.

“Mr. Malfoy, if you would so kindly hurry up,” the judge calls out, but Draco doesn’t even look up from the papers, and Hermione’s still stabbing into Harry’s psyche.

“We’ve been nurturing this case for years now, and then I find out he’s the one who takes up the defendant's case?  His family name attached once again to Tom Riddle?  Don’t you dare belittle my issues down to a simple case of rivalry.”  

Her head is practically in flames at this point and it’s a blessing no one is seated in the first few rows behind her.  It’s a miracle Draco himself doesn’t hear.  How Harry hasn’t combusted is impossible to understand.

You’d think she’d be in a cheery mood, what with her date and all.  But it seems the first-time jitters are short-circuiting her patience and overall temperament.

“Your Honor, it would seem I need further time with these documents I’ve just been handed-”

That whips Hermione’s head nearly completely off her neck.

“Just handed?  I personally delivered that to your legal team a week ago.”

“Really?” Draco muses, a damn-near playful lightness to his eyes and voice.  “Strange, I only just got it now.”

It’s ten minutes to twelve, and Hermione is livid, and obviously that’s exactly Draco’s aim- he lives to see her explode in court.  He’s about to get a show.  “Your Honor, may I approach-”

“Your Honor,” he slides in, grinning at the judge.  “I feel now would be a good time for a recess.  If at all possible, could it be extended so I can get a proper look before my cross examination?  Clearly, the prosecution has been rushing to get their expert on the stand today, and now with this-”

“You know what,” Hermione takes a turn at being rude.  She mimics Draco’s smile and stands up.  “Your Honor, a recess would be lovely.”

Judge McGonagall looks like she was praying for the exact same thing.  She waves a hand at the both of them before they can say anymore.

“Alright.  Heaven knows I need one.  We will adjourn until two o’clock.  At that time, I expect both legal councils to conduct themselves with civility.  I don’t care for you two to be friends, but I care deeply about this migraine your squabbling has induced.”

With that, she drops the gavel and Hermione subsequently shoves all the paperwork at Harry.  Who grumbles something predictable and unintelligible.  Something Hermione doesn’t bother to snap back at.  It will take her at least six minutes to get to the coffee shop and fix her disastrous hair (it was fine now, but once it touched the outdoors…).  Not a second to waste.

And now she has two hours, instead of the measly one she’d expected.

Uncharacteristically bubbly and distracted, Hermione darts for the exit, only to slam right into the most dastardly obstacle.  Who smells like the men’s section of Macy’s perfume maze.

With a cosmetically injected smile, Hermione backs away from the tailor-made jerk in front of her, and unfortunately away from the small gate that separates her from freedom.  

“After you, Mr. Malfoy.”  She means to sound polite.  She sounds poisonous.

Draco is all thickly laid-on politeness, since the jury isn’t completely done filing out.  He’s a performer ‘til the end.  So, his smile only wavers just a tad, enough to let Hermione know, and only her, that he loathes her guts.

For everyone else, he takes a leisurely step back and waves a hand towards her one escape route.  

“No, I insist.  After you, Ms. Granger.”  He means to sound polite.  He sounds disgustingly sweet.

Not wanting to prolong the agony any longer, or chance an encounter with his chilling client, Hermione makes a break for it.

When she’s through the court doors, it’s like she’s opened a jar of butterflies in her stomach.

_Shit._

_Shit, shit, shit._

_“Ron,” Hermione flails, eyes glued in horror to her computer screen.  Ron doesn’t look up from the hellish paper sorting she’s chored him with.  “Ron, Ron, it’s blinking.  What does that mean?”_

_Finally, Ron decides this might just be a good enough distraction from his task and gets up from his place among the rubble.  He walks behind Hermione’s desk, where her hand is waving at him.  When he peers closer at the computer, thinking she’s having a virus attack - again -, Ron nods slowly._

_“Right,” he murmurs,”that blinking little person means someone wants to talk to you.”_

_Hermione gapes.  “What? Who?”_

_Despite her outraged cry, Ron leans in and guides the mouse to that little person, and clicks.  “I-object-to-idiots, apparently.  Are you telling me you have an AOL account, but you’ve never used it before?”_

_He’s laughing at her, on the inside.  He knows better than to actually laugh out loud, this close in proximity to her talons._

_Hermione scowls, and shoves his hand off the mouse.  “Your sister set it up as a joke.”_

_To that, Ron just shrugs.  He doesn’t make to return to his volunteer work.  “Doesn’t mean you can’t have fun with it.”_

_“I don’t want to have fun.  I have work to do.”_

_She hears Ron snoring at her mid-sentence, and glares at him.  To think, she’d invited him into her safe workplace, to obediently do her busywork for her.  And now he was revolting._

_“Do you really think I have time to bother with someone called ‘i-object-to-idiots’?”_

_“Hmm,” he mock-wonders and leans back in to get a better look at the horrible username.  She’s busy watching his thoughtful expression that she doesn’t notice when his fingers sneak around that hazardous mouse.  “I don’t know, do you, booksnob4life?”_

_There’s a click, and a ding! And Hermione’s stomach drops from beneath her._

_Before she can raise her arms to swat Ron away, he’s backing out of her range, laughing hysterically while her computer makes some alien clucking sound.  She glances at the screen, petrified, as the notification comes: i-object-to-idiots is writing._

_“Oh god, oh no.  He’s writing something.  What do I do?”_

_Her last encounter with a social life was… too long ago, she can’t accurately place a date on it, and God help her she’s barely ever interacted with the internet besides for research and school, and her ability to talk anything but law has shriveled dramatically these past few years-_

_“Respond, I’d hope,” Ron chuckles, and he’s not at all helpful-_

_There’s a gleeful swoosh!_

_“Oh, god.”_

_I-object-to-idiots wrote at 19:43 - A real book snob would never put the number ‘4’ in their username.  Actually, I think the ‘4life’ bit is a dead giveaway that you are not who you say you are._

_Without any rational thought behind it, Hermione slaps Ron’s hand where it lies on her desk._

_“That’s exactly what I told Ginny!” She exclaims, oblivious to Ron’s painful yelp as he flinches away from her.  He curls his hand against his chest, regretting all of tonight’s decisions- starting with picking up the phone and not instantly hanging up at the sound of Hermione’s voice._

_His mouth opens to encourage a reply from Hermione, but her fingers are already attacking the keyboard.  The grin on her face is the most earnest one he’s seen in weeks; her current caseload has kept her on a downward stress spiral._

_It was one of the reasons why Ginny had hatched this devious internet scheme.  Ron just hadn’t thought it would actually work._

_He scoots away and plops back down in the seventh circle of hell- determined to sort through the files while Hermione, finally, sorts through her personal life._

_Occasionally between rapid-fire typing, Hermione lets out a laugh or scoffs at something she’s read.  She remains this way most of the night, completely forgetting she needed to fax so-and-so this-and-that by ten, sharp.  She hasn’t had this much interest in the internet since she found out how to send mass emails._

_She barely waves goodbye to Ron, and has to remind herself that she does have a hearing to attend bright and early the next morning- but before she can even type a goodbye-_

_i-object-to-idiots wrote at 23:01 - I’m extremely proud that I managed to distract you this badly, and for this long.  You have something to do in the morning, I’m guessing?  I should let you go?_

_you wrote at 23:02 - Am I to assume you didn’t have anything better to do?_

_I-object-to-idiots wrote at 23:02 - Better?  No.  But there is a closing statement I should be writing…_

_It’s a shame she can’t hear him, for she imagines he’s groaning.  And she wishes he could hear her laughing.  But it’s just a bunch of clicking._

_you wrote at 23:04 - I should let you go, then._

_He writes: Please don’t.  I’d rather save myself the finger cramps and just wing it.  I’m a pro at that._

_Hermione’s hand hovers over the keyboard, biting down on a smile.  She mistakenly takes a peek at the time stamp next to his message, and sighs as she writes back:  I actually do have something to do in the morning..._

_He replies, “Oh,” and it’s like he’s sitting in her office, glump and unwilling to leave.  She has no idea what he looks like, but yet she tries to picture this stranger all the same.  There’s the outline of proud shoulders and he’s leaning back, leg hitched over the other.  Hermione’s sure he’d be wearing something impeccable but she can’t quite put her finger on the brand.  “Now why on earth did you have to go and plan that something?  Not knowing you’d encounter an intellectual on the internet tonight?”_

_“An intellectual?” Hermione barks, her swivel chair twists and drifts back in mock confusion.  “Where?”_

_Imagination is a dangerous business, especially hers, and it runs wild with assuming this stranger’s reaction.  He places a hand upon his chest, wounded severely.  “Ouch,” he sends across an immeasurable distance of intangible web._

_It’s boggling to realize this conversation is being held both here, and somewhere completely unknown and unseen to her.  Moreso to feel like they are in their own space, unknown and unseen to anyone else._

_The chair she imagines him to sit in creaks, his body shifting unwillingly, preparing to make his leave- even though he wasn’t ever really here.  “I should go, then.  You’ve abused my ego enough for one night.”_

_For one night.  Hermione’s pressed against her desk, probably too close to the glaring screen to be healthy at all, and it feels like one false scooch is all it’ll take to drop her off her chair.  In one night, a few hours really, she’s become invested in conversation with a complete and utter stranger._

_Despite the little, insistent whisper in her head that this is a terrible idea, and she should really focus on work-_

_She types: Round two, tomorrow night?_

_And waits._

_23:10 Of course._

The jar of butterflies has become a vortex- a portal, if you will, to a butterfly-infested dimension.

She’s sure there is one butterfly for every message she’s ever sent her mystery man, and at least double that for every message he’s ever sent her.  Weeks of confiding in anonymity to a stranger who couldn’t possible relate to her - yet did - swirl around in her chest.  Suddenly, every conversation is replayed in her head: every Sunday banter about each and every overhyped, politically distressing and underrated novel clashed with late night confessions.  The ones she’d never tell her friends: about how maybe her job has in fact consumed her, and how maybe she hadn’t realized how much of herself she’d have to give- how much she was willing to.  He assured her, continues to in her mind, that yeah, it’s selfish but it’s okay to want to take a break from ‘doing good’ and just ‘do you, relax, have a day to yourself, have a way to define yourself outside of your job.  Have a life.’

She wants to, she does, but the more she waits on life, the more she just wants to run back into her office.

Hermione clutches a searing cup of coffee in her hands, using the nagging nerves in her palm as a distraction from her ticking watch, from the crowded, humming room and the thump-thump-thumping of her heels against the stool she’s sitting on.  The barista keeps glancing at the furniture, certain this extremely caffeinated customer has stabbed two holes into the stool pegs.  Unfortunately, Hermione is not at all caffeinated.  She wishes that was her excuse.  It’d be more of the usual, and less of the absolutely absurd.

But no, the insanity continues.

There’s a quiet, almost indignant touch of expensive shoes to linoleum floor, and Hermione knows better than to look over her shoulder.  She knows who it is before he opens his mouth to say something witty-

“Could you please?” She mutters with a quick flutter of the hand, shooing the pest away.  Draco Malfoy is just getting comfortable, sliding into the one free stool the room has to offer.  It’s supposed to be for someone else, but he obviously doesn’t know this, or care, from his complete lack of mobility.

He’s staring down at the book on the counter with a great deal of shock and curiosity, and Hermione is quick to snatch it away and place it on the other side of her.  He still looks baffled, and is not in any way moving.  So, she clarifies her reason for not wanting him around _this time,_ and stares him down all the while.  Despite the redness nipping at her ears.

“I’m meeting someone.”

His stunned expression lingers, eyes observing her for a moment too long for her comfort, but she refuses to back down.  

Now Draco’s frowning; the kind of face he’d make if he heard one of his clients had passed away before paying his legal fees.  

He opens his mouth, but hesitates; lips twisting this way and that, as though struggling to form coherent words.  Her request is that stupefying.  “This is the one coffee shop with decent roasts, within walking distance,” he finally says, the words coming out slow and dubious, “and you want me to give it up because you are ‘meeting someone’?”

“Yes.”

“Well this is the only seat available, I’ve been standing all day, and I don’t care,” Draco briskly states, and it feels like he’s actually cemented his ass to the stool; posture perfected from years of practice (he used to slouch like a humpback whale in school), hands firmly planted to the counter, eyes determined to look out the window.  He didn’t even have a coffee in hand, and Hermione is pretty sure he’ll make the barista deliver it to him herself.

“Figures,” she mutters bitterly, and takes a sip from her cup- just to keep from spouting years’ worth of bitterness.  

At least his arrival has extinguished all the pesky butterflies in her chest.  

“I never took you for someone who’d go on a blind date.”

Hermione nearly spits onto the counter.  Instead, she manages to somewhat gracefully swallow her coffee.  She keeps her eyes out the window, watching strangers brush shoulders and never speak.  Draco does the same.

“Who says I’m on a blind date?”

She hears him chuckle lightly, and she’s always hated the sound; it’s sincere, and reminds her of a time when- No, no.  It didn’t do to think about then.  It only serves to disappoint her when she remembers now.

In the midst of her thoughts, Draco’s become animated and he’s pointing at the biography she snatched away from him.  “You always take your coffee to go, but here you are, sitting close to the door, meeting someone but not scouting for that someone’s arrival.  Interesting.  Except, of course you wouldn’t be, because you don’t know what he or she looks like.  To top it all off, you read that book a few weeks ago.  You can’t possibly be rereading it, so you’re using it as a token for the person to identify you by.  A blind date.”

Skin tingling with a good deal of embarrassment and annoyance, Hermione takes another sip of her coffee to soothe her nerves.  But she can feel Draco watching her expectantly, waiting for validation.  She glances over at him and raises an eyebrow in challenge.  “Are you expecting applause?”

His lips go topsy-turvy, and he’s smiling in a way that’s nowhere near the falsities she’s used to.  This isn’t a show Draco’s putting on for a crowd to appease or convince them.  It’s not the one he practices in the mirror before greeting another smoke-clogged, greed-driven client or entering another ghastly and cold meeting at his father’s firm.  It’s the lopsided smile of a young student she used to know, who was amused by her ability to amuse him.  When they weren’t at each other’s throats.

“A ‘bravo’ will suffice,” he replies, and the mood is uncomfortably different from what she’s used to.  The hostility of the courtroom had become second nature to her, almost a second home.  This camaraderie is completely foreign ground.  At least, now it is.  

Five years ago, it wouldn’t have been so strange to see Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger seated next to each other with a cup of joe.  Practicing a mock trial they’d play out later that evening in class, swapping notes on the case their professor had them studying together, or arguing about the ‘favored’ results on one of their exams.

In law school, they hadn’t hated each other as much as they do now.  It was, as Harry had put it, more of a rivalry than anything.  And sometimes, their combative natures were fun to play off of, to bond over when they were mentally and physically wiped.  But then-

“Why the nerves?”  He asks, and for once it isn’t to tease her before a session or in front of a client.  

Hermione sighs into her cup, watches the aromatic steam dance away from her and kiss the windowpane.  

“I’m afraid he might be too ideal,” she confesses, her brain foggy like the glass in front of her.  She shouldn’t be confiding in her opponent, but the coffee beans smell nostalgic of late night study runs and lazy libraries.

Draco’s whole face seems to be shocked by that, and the muscles pull back in confusion.  “And you’d rather he wasn’t?”  

Hermione groans and puts down the coffee, twists in the stool to turn away from, and then towards Draco.  She’s incapable of making up her mind on him, on this subject, and it’s terribly bothersome.

“Yes, and no,” she offers to Draco’s furthered confusion.  She rolls her eyes, mostly at her own incompetence, and runs a frustrated and firm hand through her curls.  Another horrible decision on her part; she can feel the curls multiply and frizz.  So much for fixing it up.

It says much about her worry over the ‘ideal’.

“I have an image in my head of who he is, and if he isn’t… It’s hard to get past what your mind builds up.  But… if he is, if he’s exactly who I pictured him to be, and he’s as close to perfect for me as they come,” Hermione’s blabbering, and she knows it, but she can’t stop it now.  She sighs.  “That just means I get to ruin it.  As I always, inevitably do.”

“You’re that bad at dating?” He’s scoffing, and it’s meant to be playful, but Hermione is quite serious when she eyes him.

“Yes, actually I am,” she replies, deadpanned, “because I’m dedicated to my job.  And not many relationships can withstand it.”

Draco’s teasing smile falters the longer her eyes remain steady and stoic.  She’s no fun like this.   And he knows she can be fun.

“But he’s-” Draco’s mouth lags behind his words and he shakes his head, frustrated.  “What’s his profession?  Do you know?”

“Of course, I know,” Hermione shoots back defensively, simultaneously begging he doesn’t ask for a name.  “He’s a lawyer.”

“Then he’ll understand.”  He says it like it’s case closed, settled business.  It says much about how little he knows of her personal file.  She’s actually laughing at him, stunning him again for the millionth time that day.

“And so what if he does?  I’ve dated within my profession before, and it doesn’t work out either.  Not the way I want it to.  My private and public life are built in two completely different fashions.  It’s impossible to maintain them both, and maybe I don’t want to…” Hermione trails off, something in Draco’s eyes catching her unhealthy interest; she realizes he’s really paying attention to her, not tuning her out as he’s prone to doing in court (though he swears he’d never).  He’s intent to discuss with her the intricacies of her private life, “and I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

“Isn’t it nice to talk about something other than work, for once?”  There’s a sad hint in there of ‘like before?’ that Hermione isn’t lost on.  And that’s the dangerous bit, really, because it almost pulls her in again, almost makes her forget:

Draco Malfoy has done this before.

“No, it’s not nice, actually,” and Hermione’s words are bricks building a wall between them.  A wall she should’ve never brought down in the first place.  Not again.  The last time she’d done it, it had cost her dearly in court.  And as he full-well knew: “My work is my life.  Other people’s lives.  It’s the only thing worth talking about, especially around you.”

The look on his face tells Hermione he takes her comment as he should: personally.  Draco’s smile is scorched from his face, and he’s clearing his throat against ash, his gaze severe.  “I take the cases that are put on my desk, same as you.”

“No, you choose them,” Hermione rejects his excuses; this imagined scenario where he has no choice.  “You always have, Draco.  Your father may own the firm, but you own yourself.  At anytime, you could’ve walked away and done some good.  You know I gave you a chance to.  But instead, you’re defending a company- a sick, sick man who intentionally-” Draco opens his mouth, but Hermione’s hand shoots up to stop the nonsense- “ _intentionally_ poisons the water and pretends not to notice when it irreversibly damages, _ends_ lives.  You and your father have been defending Tom Riddle for years now, by choice.  You chose this case, as did I.  And if I can’t see that man behind bars for what he did, I sure as hell am going to get him for all he’s worth.”

Hermione thinks she’s done ranting, turns back to the pedestrians beyond the glass, glaring at an innocent passerby, but she’s still got something angry and bubbling inside her where butterflies once were.  

“I once thought you wanted the same.”

Whatever that something is, it’s still bubbling.  But she decides she’s done and focuses on the now lukewarm coffee in her hands.

The coffee is cold when Draco finally speaks up, ten minutes to two o’clock.

“Seems your date stood you up,” he says blandly after clearing his throat of something that’s been lodged in there for two hours now.  She doesn’t even know why he’s bothered to stay in awkward, hostile silence next to her.  She doesn’t know why she’s disappointed to see him go.  

She does know, however, why her stomach has turned to concrete.

“I’m sure something came up,” she replies, and it’s pathetic because it’s mostly something she says to comfort herself and not him- because why would he care?  If anything, he should be gloating that her personal life has, yet again, been a no-show.

Strangely enough, Draco looks as distraught as she feels.

He takes his leave, but she lingers.  After all, it only takes six minutes to walk back to court.

She ends up two minutes late.  She’s never late.  At least, not before _him_.  Yet Draco is devoid of any snide remarks, and Harry’s more bothered by the look on Tom Riddle’s face, so Hermione doesn’t think too much of it until she’s home.  Until she’s home and seated at her computer, staring at the little blinking notification at the bottom of her screen.

Someone wants to talk to her.

For a moment, she thinks of ignoring him, of sitting on the couch and taking a moment for herself.  But then she realizes she’s only thinking of relaxing because of his short, fleeting influence on her life.

So.  Hermione gives into the blinking light and reads:

_16:34 I’m so sorry.  Something came up at work, and I couldn’t make it in time._

_16:40 No, that’s a lie.  I shouldn’t have said that.  I should be honest.  So, I’ll try, even if I’ve gotten very good at the lie.  I stood you up.  There are nicer ways to put it, that put me in a better light, but I want the light to be as plain and real as possible.  I stood you up.  I was the worst kind of coward because I’d made it to the door, I’d made it inside, but I couldn’t reveal myself to you._

_16:41 You see, I’m afraid I’ve painted myself in a very particular palette of colors that creates an ideal image, rather than a real human. And you deserve something, someone real.  So, I still want to meet you, so badly, but not until I’ve proven myself to be flawed and ridiculous and real, and you’ve decided I still deserve your time._

_16:42 Of course, you might be ignoring these messages completely because I, again, stood you up.  I should probably stop typing that, but it’s the truth and you probably already knew that and are ignoring me.  But I’ll keep messaging you, because I’m stubborn and selfish, two traits you should definitely know about me.  So yeah, I’m really hoping you don’t think I’m completely spineless by the end of this, and will give me a chance to prove that I’m more than a waste of words on a screen._

_16:42 I’ll stop typing now._

The glow from her screen is soft and warm, and the now cozy, familiar sound of talking keys fills her small apartment.  There’s a click, and a swoosh! and she’s written:

_I can’t wait to meet you._


	2. Mens Rea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco's impulses are what lead to the mess he's in now, with an AOL persona that has done what he has failed to do time and time again: woo Hermione Granger. The humor of his situation is lost on him, as are his hopes that this might, possibly, end well for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Months later, a wild second chapter appears! This is in Draco's POV, mimicking bits of the You've Got Mail movie. There will be more chapters, though not quite sure what the frequency will be. Anyway, enjoy and please let me know how you feel about the continuation!

_Booksnob4life is typing…_

_Booksnob4life is typing…_

_19:45: Sorry, I have to go.  Talk about this later?_

“What?  No!”  

Straight to hell goes the stagnant office silence as Draco Malfoy shoots upright in his chair.  Polished shoes get a good scuff or two as they smack into a hefty desktop organizer and knock it to the ground, splaying well-organized papers and staplers all over the place; Pansy had warned him about putting his feet on the desk, for this exact, dramatic reason.  Just like then, he doesn’t really give a damn.  That’s what interns are for, anyway, and he has much bigger things to worry about.

Like the message Hermione Granger is dodging like a silver fucking bullet.

 _You_ (stupidly) _wrote at 19:39: Come again?  Correct me if I’m wrong but my liking The Stranger makes you so happy you could… kiss me?_

 _You_ (also, again, stupidly) _wrote at 19:39:_ _Does that mean you want to? You want to kiss me?_

He had known, the moment he started typing those ridiculous sentences that it would come back to bite him in the ass.  He had also known exactly who he was sending it to, and why it was a horrible, horrible idea to keep typing.  

Yet.  He sits, wanting to type some more.  Wanting to type a lot more.  Though, _more_ than anything else, Draco wants to see her.  And that’s probably the stupidest thing he’s wanted in a long while.

Yet.

His hand is scooping up the office phone before his brain can thoroughly object.  By the time it’s formulated arguments for why he should not, in any way, contact Hermione Granger in this precarious moment- the phone is ringing.  The phone is freaking ringing and he doesn’t even know what he’s going say.  “Hi!  I’m the idiot called i-object-to-idiots and I would really like to know if you want to kiss me,” doesn’t exactly sound like the sharpest idea in the tool shed.  It’s exactly what he wants to say, though.  It’s exactly what he’s wanted to say for the past two days, ever since he first saw Hermione sitting in that damned cafe with that damned book signaling him over to his damned fate.  A fate he’s both swerving and slamming right into.

He’s a damned idiot.

The phone isn’t ringing anymore.

“Hello?”  A dry as sandpaper voice calls from the other side, bored out of its mind.

Draco sighs in deep, deep relief.  He leans back into his chair, reclining in false leisure.

“Perky Percy!  How are you, my favorite freckled Weasley?”

Percy’s replying sigh is pure exhaustion.  “Don’t call me that.”

“Never happened,” Draco says, brushing Percy’s annoyance aside as he wishes he could brush aside his feelings.  Unfortunately, they stay firmly in place.  Thus, he says: “Say, there are some details about tomorrow’s session I wanted to hash out with Ms. Granger.  Is she around?”

His eyes are glued to the desktop screen.  Booksnob4life is offline, but is she really?

“No,” is the quick response.  So, she must have left just then.  “She just left.”

Draco’s smiling, but he’s not exactly sure why.  He’s been doing that a lot lately.  It’s bothersome, to say the least.

“Oh?” He replies, and he’s trying his darnedest to dial down the chaotic energy in his gut.  Whatever it’s up to, it’s no good and all sorts of destructive.  Yet, he says: “Any idea where she went?”

“Home.”  The word is a brick Percy drops on Draco’s head.  On the brick is another word: Duh.  “She goes home.  Everyday.  You should try it.”

Draco’s glaring at the receiver now, but his brain is glitching- incapable of constructing the right comeback.  Which is a sign that Draco must be falling ill.  Severely ill, if what he says next is any clue.  “Where does she call home nowadays, Perky Percy?  Or how may I call her home?”

There’s a silence in which Draco is booming with confidence that Perky Percy is searching for Hermione’s contact information.  He has a pen at the ready, eager to jot down any and all given details.  What he’ll say when he calls her, he’s not exactly sure just yet but-

“Goodbye.”

The phone dies.  It isn’t working anymore.  That, or Percy just hung up on him.  However impossible the latter is, either way Draco should see it as a blessing in disguise.  After all, a call to Hermione Granger’s household at this hour would be nothing less than a train-wreck of made-up excuses, tauntings and, inevitably, fighting over irrelevant matters like casework or his past, plentiful mistakes.

And yet.

The desk, upon slamming his head upon it, accurately vocalizes Draco’s agony with a groan and a quite worrisome, should-get-that-looked-at, snap.

How exactly had he fallen into this grotesque mess?

Like a foreboding sign from God, the lights in his office switch off, leaving him completely in the dark.  Obviously, nobody gives a shit how he fell or if he stays permanently in a fallen heap.

Still, the question remains: how did it get like this?

“Oh,” a voice calls down to him from above.  It sounds a bit too detached and snide to be an angel.  Definitely not God.  “You’re still here.”

The darkness of the room gives Draco some courage to look up, even in his wallowing state.  He squints and makes out in the emergency light the shape of a colleague, a traitor, an answer to his question.

“Theo, what the hell?  Turn the lights back on.”

Theo does not, for the record, turn the lights back on.  Instead, he stands there, judging Draco from his temporarily higher ground.  “I think the faint glow from your computer does better justice for your features.  Gives your pouting dramatic flare.  We all know you like that.  Almost as much as, dare I say it, you like booksnob-” Theo makes sure to count out four on his fingers, “-4life?”

Draco pries himself off the desk and sits properly again, tries to level the ground beneath the two of them, but Theo refuses to sit down in the chair across from him.  And Draco refuses to stand.  Since that would mistakenly suggest some kind of inferiority complex is at play.  Which it isn’t.

“This is all your fault,” he says, clearing his throat and, discreetly, closing the AOL window.  The AOL window Theo had originally opened as a horrible, drawn-out prank.

“Oh, I wish I was responsible for the caricature i-object-to-idiots has become, but no.  This is all your fine, award-winning work.”  Theo’s voice offers no remorse, and barely gives away just how much amusement Draco’s suffering offers.  It’s the subtle smile on his face that’s the dead giveaway, though.    

“Award-winning?” Draco glowers.

“Yes,” Theo replies, unmoved.  Well, he is eyeing the door, but that’s because it’s nearly eight o’clock and he has better things to do than join his boss’s pity party.  “We had bets on how long it would take for you to win in the category ‘Worst Life Decision’.  Unfortunately, both I and Blaise owe Pansy one benjamin each.  Frankly, I’m pretty pissed off with you about that.”

“Really?” And Draco is practically growling.  To Theo, he sounds like a chihuahua.  “You’re pissed off?  After you sat at _my_ desk, logged into _my_ work account, made an AOL in _my_ name, and - _on my behalf_ \- periodically messaged strangers the most idiotic, insulting, exaggerated, and completely incorrect descriptions of me, _your boss_ \- after all that, you’re pissed off with _me_?”

For a moment, Draco lets them sit in melodramatic silence; much like he had done when he first discovered the office prank right there, still open on his computer screen over a month ago.  Just like then, Theo stands still, stubbornly unwavering.  He’s pondering over the summary of past events.  He’s nodding.

“You’re right.  We’re even.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

Theo clucks his tongue in disappointment.  “But I’m the one who hides the bodies, so…  What a snag.”

If not for the disconcerting crack he heard before from his desk, Draco probably would have slammed Theo into it.  But alas.  So, instead, he sighs for a long, long time; so long, one could imagine a clown pulling his soul out as he does so, one colorful handkerchief at a time.  At least, that’s what Theo envisions.  

“You should have never clicked on her,” Theo remarks, trying in vain to disguise a laugh.  He’s very, very close to getting fired for being very, very correct.  To top it all off, he doesn’t even know the whole, hilariously horrific story.  

To think that Draco’s insatiable desire to make a comment about one, meaningless, person’s username had begun a downward spiral to this very moment.  Had he known, _oh had he known_ , he would have logged out of that AOL account the second he had finished investigating Theo’s ridiculous prank.  But alas.  This very moment is very much live, and pumping with the same needs that drove his mouse to her username, and clicked.

“Fuck,” and that’s the end of the sigh.  The last handkerchief is pulled, his soul is departed.

Draco stands up from his desk, and almost leaves the computer on.  Unfortunately, a very Hermione-like voice in his head scolds him, and he promptly shuts it off.  The computer, not the voice.  Much to his annoyance, she’s impossible to switch off now.

“Draco?”  With the computer screen dead, the entire room is pitch-black save the emergency exit lights, which makes it impossible to figure out Theo’s intentions in calling out.

“What?”

“Interesting.”

“What?”

“I was sure you’d shut off, too.”

“You’re fired.”

There’s the sound of feet stumbling into, previously, dropped papers and staplers.  Over Draco’s subsequent stream of curses, he hears Theo opening the door to leave.

“See you tomorrow, boss,” Theo says to a pair of unseen middle fingers.

At least he turns on the lights.  But no epiphanies come with it, no bulging lightbulb above Draco’s head filled with bright ideas about what to do next.  So, Draco does the next best thing: he leaves.  Leaves the computer to collect dust overnight, vows not to fall into that vortex of the internet until tomorrow morning, allowing booksnob4life plenty of time for her ‘talk about it later’ scenario.  He commits to this, to letting his brain mull over- for yet another pained day- just how to break it to the pain-in-the-ass Hermione Granger that he, the loathsome Draco Malfoy, is the one she’s been confiding in nearly every overworked night for over a month.  He commits to this and, to his credit, he does not break said commitment.

However.  

Draco wanted to see her.  Still does when, completely by coincidence and dumb luck, his eyes stray a glance through a random window, of a random restaurant, and spot the most alarming array of curls.  Her trademark.

Bewildered, he comes to a complete halt, again completely by coincidence and dumb luck, beneath a lit lamp post.  What he thinks is an epiphany comes with it, a literal bulging lightbulb above his head filled with allegedly bright ideas about what to do next.  But, let the record show, that what comes next is not in any way the best thing he could have done.  Yet, somehow, it isn’t a utter shit show.

The look on Hermione’s face, when he plops down across the table from her, is a mixture of horror and resignation.  Neither expression should give him joy, yet they do.  He’s beaming with joy and overconfidence; for once, Draco knows something she doesn’t, and it’s all to his advantage tonight.

“Why?”  is what Hermione offers as greeting.  He’ll take it.

“They set the table for two,” Draco explains, still grinning as he waves a hand casually to the assembly of plates.  On cue, a waiter swoops in to flip over the unused glass and soon it’s filled with water; thus, Draco’s presence is formally acknowledged, and now she’s stuck with him.  He has social norms to thank; the same norms Hermione, no doubt, is silently cursing straight to hell.

“I enjoy eating alone.”

“Oh, I know.  I don’t.”  The hint Hermione drops, drops straight to the floor, where Draco eagerly kicks it under the table.  Smugly, he takes a long sip from his glass, and the waiter is back with a menu for him to peruse.

The amount of time Draco spends looking over the starters and main courses is unnatural, to say the least.  Especially since he’d had no intention of eating out that night until, of course, he’d seen what this restaurant had to offer.  Said offer sits right across from him, boiling.  In fact, every time he glances up from beneath the menu, she seems to become more, and more well-done.  He knows why, but has no idea how to turn off the fire burning her up.  In truth, that’s why he hides behind the fortress of a menu, biding his time until he can think of the right thing to say.  

The Right Thing, though, isn’t exactly his forte.  In fact, it’s exactly what got him into this mess.  Well, that and Theo.

The Strange Thing, though, is usually Draco doesn’t care about the messes he makes, because he usually leaves them for the interns to clean.  Or his father.  That’s the way it’s been for years now, and he’s in sync with the routine.  Except, sometimes, he’s not in sync with anything at all.  Like tonight.  He should’ve left work hours ago, taken a cab to his cleaned loft and his prepared dinner, and reviewed prepped notes for tomorrow’s court session.  Instead, here he is sitting in his own mess, cluelessly trying to figure out how to clean it up- all on his own.  Why?

“Doesn’t matter.”  Out of the peripheral of his thoughts, Draco catches the end of Hermione’s sigh.  Apparently, she too is having an internal monologue.  The only difference is she’s maintaining the conversation while munching on bread.

“What?”  Draco blurts, wondering if maybe she’s addressing his thoughts, somehow.  She would be that kind of sorceress, able to maneuver through the mire of his mind when he was utterly lost.  It wouldn’t be the first time, that’s for sure.

Hermione pops a piece of bread into her mouth and chews, shrugs.  She might as well be biting down on his brain.  “Doesn’t matter if I only think of the devil,” she explains nonchalantly, reaching for her glass.  “Warrants the same effect.”

“There it is,” Draco shoots out through the tightness in his throat; it feels like he’s choking on the water she’s drinking.  “It’s comments like those.”

Now it’s Hermione’s turn to be puzzled, or at least she pretends to be.  “What about them?”

“Makes it impossible for me to leave,” he drawls.  Since she’s pretending, he childishly decides to do the same.  He leans back in his chair, sprawling out, defying all proper etiquette he’s learned; more of the usual, really.  It hindsight, he shouldn’t have created such an impression if his intention was to woo her.  But bitterness gets the better of him.  And her.

“Got it,” Hermione muses, peeling back the crust on a slice of bread- no doubt envisioning his skin.  There is a positively radiant, hostile glint in her eyes, though she maintains quite the polished facade.  She purses her lips and tilts her head to the side, thinking.  He shouldn’t like this look on her, or the way her hair falls at this angle, but…

“Keep thinking of the devil, and the devil remains,” she murmurs pensively.  “Hmm.  This will be a challenge.”

There’s a curve to her lips, hinting to laughter beneath the sarcasm and long-standing grudge against him; the laughter is at him, not with him.  He’s not quite sure how to treat it because jammed in his head is a kaleidoscope of Hermiones: the lawyer who hates his guts, the law student who still hated his guts but kind of liked his other organs enough to tolerate him, and the internet personality who likes his guts… maybe even wants to kiss his guts.  Well, not his guts per-say.  Whichever Hermione is in front of him, one is far more than enough to make his entire internal system explode.  But why?

It would be a lie to say that, on any other day, he wouldn’t have cared about her equating him to the devil.  On any other day, he would’ve cared just as much as he does now, for whatever cursed reason.  Today, he just doesn’t have the energy to pretend otherwise; it’s a complete system failure, and it’s completely her fault.  Why?

“Do you really think that badly of me?”  Why the hell does he care?

The thin layer of crust Hermione has in her hand is placed down on her plate, and it seems she’s done toying with the food.  

“No,” she admits, vexed by her own answer.  “If I did, there’d be no point in voicing it.  I know what I say will have some effect, so you’re not all bad.  Just bad enough to deserve the saying.”

The waiter would find it pertinent to come and take orders now.  Draco bluntly flicks him away.

“So, your intention is to make me feel guilty or what?”  He presses, pushes down said guilt and implied frustration deep, deep down so he can focus.  They’re finally getting somewhere, and he doesn’t want to show just how sore he is.  

“Hmm,” Hermione hums, eyebrows raised just so.  They’ve been frozen in judgment since he ushered off the waiter.  Apparently, she could see just how sore he was then, and is still.  Doesn’t stop her from being honest, so at least there’s that.  “Make you feel guilty or... inspire atonement.  Feel guilty, atone.  Guilt... atone.  I think I’m leaning towards atone.”

Ridiculous.

“Is what I did _really_ so bad, you’d consider it _a sin_ to atone for?”

To this, Hermione’s finger springs up and wags at him.  “Continue to do,” she promptly corrects, unblinking.  “Present tense.  And yes.”

Still ridiculous, but, “okay.”

To this, Hermione seems to choke on bread she’d long swallowed.  “Okay?”  She regurgitates, honestly confused by the looks of it.  Her honest confusion at his willingness to _atone_ is much more irksome, he discovers, than any of her pretendings.

“Are there carrots in your ears?”  He snaps, beside himself.  “That’s what I said.”

 _Do you even remember the point of tonight?_ Draco’s mind hisses, just as annoyed with himself as he could ever be with Hermione.  He’s supposed to be figuring out a way to clean his mess but, from the looks of it, his every action adds another piece of trash onto the pile.  And, from the look on Hermione’s face, he’s very close to kissing goodbye any chance at any future kiss with her.  Though, again, why does he want to do that anyway?

“Sorry,” he says, and as if that isn’t enough to unnerve Hermione, he takes a deep breath and explains that “what I meant to say is: let me make it up to you.”

As predicted, Hermione shifts uncomfortably in her chair, and her eyes dart down.  He follows them, and realizes her hands are cluelessly fixed to the table, just as his are.  If he dared, he could test in just what fashion she was unnerved by, ever so slightly, flattening his fingers against the surface and, ever so accidentally, touching-

“And how do you propose to do that?” Hermione coughs and her hands are gone, placed upon her lap just as the waiter reappears with her food; of course, she’d already ordered before Draco’s arrival.

“For starters?  Paying for dinner,” Draco suggests, sure that will buy him enough time to coax her hands back onto the table.  

It seems Hermione is more than willing to bring her hands back onto the table, but one of them is wielding a knife.  “That’s just waving your money around,” she accuses, and makes a point out of stabbing her greens.  “Nothing new, and all types of demeaning.  Besides, like I said, I enjoy eating alone.”

“Fine!” It’s a burst, but he doesn’t care.  He’s exasperated and wondering why he’s turned into such a masochist.  Then, out of the corner of his eyes, Draco catches the tail-end of Hermione’s smile, and it fills him with something drunkenly warm and recklessly giddy.  A reminder of why this is worth fixing, and waiting for.  

“I’ll… eat over there,” he improvises, determined.  “At the bar.  Afterwards, we can talk over a drink or two.”

“I don’t drink.”

Perhaps the funniest thing about that sentence is she means it, from the bottom of her sober heart.  Her tone is dead serious, and her eyes never leave the task of cutting food.  That is, until Draco, under pain of death, lets out a bark of laughter.  She glares at him then- a curious, clueless attack of bewilderment.  

“Oh, yes you do,” he says after clearing his throat once, twice, of another bubbling fit of chuckles.  He has to calm himself.  After all, Draco doesn’t want her to fling cutlery at him, which is something she definitely would’ve done had she a single clue what Draco was going on about.  Oh, but she doesn’t remember.  There’s no way she could, which is just fine because he remembers well enough for the both of them.

_At an ungodly hour, in the midst of midterms in the year 2003, a bush spoke._

_"What kind of name is Snap.  Snape- What kind of name is Snape, hmm?”_

_It’s pretty impossible for a bush to be speaking to him, yet Draco stops all the same to stare.   Either he inhaled too much of the weed cloud on his walk through campus, or the voice he’s hearing is… but it can’t be.  In the dark, he squints and tries to make out any kind of human form behind the speaking, now humming, bush.  With a cautious step forward into the grass - he can just_ **_feel_ ** _the mud sinking into the sole of his shoes - Draco finally spots a sneaker.  Just a sneaker.  No foot or leg attached.  The plot thickens._

_“It’s like,” the shrubbery continues a conversation Draco thought was both a) over and b) completely hallucinated.  “It’s like they meant to write Snake but,” the deep musing is cruelly interrupted by a hiccup, “but they fucked up the k.”_

_Another step and Draco spots the sock, and foot, that belong to the runaway sneaker.  He’d know that foot anywhere, seeing as it’s constantly kicking him in the ass._

_“Hermione?”  He says, completely baffled by the sight he sees when he moves closer.  There she is, Hermione Granger, her hair in some kind of symbiotic relationship with the bush.  He bites back a laugh because, though she looks like she belongs there in the grass and leaves, he knows she can lunge at any moment._

_Or, maybe not.  He expects her to scream or throw her other shoe at him, but her eyes are closed and all she does is… hum._

_“Have you been drinking?”  Draco asks, amused.  Finally, Hermione pries her eyes open to glare at him._

_“Been?”  She retorts, scoffing at him.  “Am.  I am drinking.”  She raises her arm, and it seems she’s convinced there’s something in her hand, like a bottle.  There isn’t._

_“No.  No, you’re not.”_

_“You’re right,” Hermione mutters, and that’s probably the warning signal he’s been waiting for.  She drops her arm and frowns, turns her head to search for things she definitely dropped somewhere else.  Her hair refuses to let her move enough to actually get a good look around._

_“I’m not drinking.  Why am I not drinking?”_

_Jesus, this is a golden opportunity for a photo op, yet Draco just can’t bring himself to do it.  The sigh that comes out of him is worth a thousand words.  Must be, because he doesn’t say a word as he drops his bag to the ground and scrunches down next to Hermione.  His limbs are awkward and knees almost grazing the dirt - yikes - and his hands are helpless as they look for a way to detangle the web of curls from branches.  To think: he could’ve just walked on by the talking bush._

_“Are you okay?”  he asks._

_“Mmm, what does okay really mean?”  Hermione counter-asks, like the good annoying law student she is.  He rolls his eyes.  “You noticed that okay is different for everyone, right?  I could say I’m okay.... But it wouldn’t be okay for you.  Okay?  Think about it,” she orders, flapping a finger onto his forehead before flippantly waving her hand in the air.  “I’m not going to.  I’m done thinking.”_

_Priceless, and petrifying.  He doesn’t know whether to laugh, or perform an autopsy._

_“What happened?”  Draco continues to pry, since it kills time while he, fails to, release her hair from its earthly restraints._

_Hermione huffs, and he can feel her rolling her eyes straight out of their sockets.  “I got drunk so I don’t have to talk about that.  Duh.”_

_The use of the ‘duh’ is yet another warning sign that the Hermione Draco knows and loathes is losing it.  “Talking about it will help sober you up,” he suggests._

_Snap, a twig breaks and a fair sum of her curls are freed.  Kind of.  There’s a twig attached to them, but it is not attached to the bush- and that’s what truly matters._

_“Don’t want to be sober!” Hermione sings into the night, and Draco allows himself to enjoy the sound.  He’ll taunt her about it later, surely, but it is lovely.  Alarming.  But lovely._

_“You’ll want to be, trust me,” he replies with a laugh, already construing Hermione’s morning reactions to such a drunken, public display.  And in front of him, of all people._

_“You’re right.  I will.”_

_His hands still, and he eyes Hermione suspiciously._

_“You’re not going to argue with me?”_

_She’s staring off into the night, at the library across the yard.  Instantly, he realizes she’d been aiming for that target when, probably, she staggered into her present situation.  It is definitely a good thing she fell when she did, because drunkenness in a university library isn’t exactly smiled upon.  Though, it’s cute that, even in this stupor, she wanted to study._

_“I don’t want to argue,” she finally answers with a hiccup, or a… stifled burp?  “I’m done arguing.”_

_Draco scoffs at that, hard.  “Hermione Granger, done arguing.  Fiction.”_

_“Real.”_

_With another snap of a twig, Draco is victorious on both fronts.  “Aha!”  He exclaims, popping Hermione’s mane free of the bush.  When she stabilizes, he points a finger at her nose.  “You just argued with me.”_

_“Damn it.”_

_Her look of defeat isn’t as gratifying as he thought it would be.  She doesn’t look defeated by him, but by everything- including herself.  It’s an extremely uncomfortable expression to lay witness to.  It feels intrusive of him to see, but for whatever lame reason he can’t stop looking at her, or wanting to help somehow.  So, he clears his throat of something that stubbornly remains lodged in there and grabs Hermione’s arms.  He pulls her up with him as he stands, but when he makes to hook her legs Hermione’s words finally catch up with her suspicions._

_“Woah,” she blares, and takes a firm step back.  Right into the bush.  “You’re most certainly not carrying me!  I can walk.”_

_“Sure,” Draco replies dubiously, eyebrow cocked and attention directed at the Cinderella shoe on the ground.  “If that’s the case, can you put on your sneaker?”_

_When he looks back at Hermione, he catches her gazing down at her feet, face scrunched in confusion.  “When did that happen?”  And he can’t stop the fit of laughter that comes bursting out of him.  It stands to wonder when the last time he laughed was.  And he’s realizing, as Hermione sways this way and that in order to get a good punch in, that he usually laughs around her.  Usually it’s at her, or at least because of her, but sometimes it’s even with her; he likes those the best._

_“Sorry,” he heaves when Hermione finally makes purchase on his spine with her fist.  Despite alcohol’s depressant tendencies, her aim is pretty true and her strike pretty damn painful.  It’s a sign she’s sobering up.  That, or she’s not human._

_Once the fit is over, Draco persuades Hermione he’s completely done being an ass (it’s a lie and they both know it), and manages to sling her arm over his shoulders.  She’s shorter than him, by a mile, and he’s slouching like a humpback whale, but it’s strangely worth it to have her hand clutching his shirt.  Even more so to have his arm around her waist.  It’s stupid, and weird, he knows, but there’s warmth spreading from every part she’s touching and it’s pretty damn cold out.  So._

_They walk or, rather, hobble in silence towards her dormitory for a while before Draco finally has to say: “it’s not like you to drink like this.  What’s wrong?”_

_She’s quiet beside him, not even humming, and for a moment he worries he’s pressed the wrong button.  She’s gone mute, and won’t say anything, anymore, to him tonight._

_But then she mumbles something, and he has to duck down even more than he already is to hear.  “Maybe I shouldn’t… shouldn’t be a lawyer.”_

_He must need an ear cleaning._

_“What?”_

_She’s humming again, and Draco decides it’s quite the musical defense mechanism.  “Maybe I should be a bartender,” she spouts, leaning her head upon his chest and swaying against him.  If he didn’t know better, and he does, he’d think she was trying to distract him with her body.  “If I pass the bar, can I be a bartender?  I make really good- strong drinks.  Case and point right here.”_

_“Ah,” Draco says, pretending to agree.  He’s practically dragging her now, the light just on the horizon.  Literally, her roommate has the light on and it’s not too far now.  “Okay.”_

_“Ugh,” Hermione mock-barfs, which terrifies the crap out of Draco because, well, it could easily lead to real-barf.  “I hate that word!”_

_Things start clicking together then: bashing Professor Snape’s name, the hatred of the word ‘okay’ and her mid-midlife crisis over being a lawyer._

_He stops in his tracks and looks down at Hermione, who’s still mock-barfing.  And they call him dramatic._

_“Professor Snape told you your examination of Grutter vs. Bollinger was ‘okay’, didn’t he?”_

_From the sound of despair that ghosts out of Hermione’s lungs, Draco knows he’s popped the mystery.  He could laugh.  He wants to.  It’s so ridiculous how she puts so much on what her professors say, that he really wants to laugh.  But he holds it in.  Instead, with a deep, dramatic sigh, he says:_

_“I’m disappointed in you.”_

_Hermione’s grief is cut short.  She’s staring at him, wide-eyed and, dare he think it, sober?  “What?” she cries._

_So, he continues, positively gloating.  “I can’t believe I’m finally able to say that.  I’m disappointed in you!”_

_“Quit saying that!”  Hermione howls, and her arms are shoving at him, trying to push him away, but her limbs are basically a bunch of spaghetti noodles tied together at this point._

_“Feels shitty, doesn’t it?” Draco remarks, reveling in temporary superiority.  It’s quite the high._

_It’s a pity Hermione isn’t feeling quite the same way.  She groans, and leans over.  “Why does it feel so shitty?”_

_“Because you’re disappointed, too.”  It’s an honest reply, but still a bit too gloaty._

_“I think I’m going to throw up.”_

_The high is completely gone, aborted.  Draco feels Hermione slipping in his arms, head aimed at his shoes, and he lurches to pull her back up.  “Don’t you dare.  Hermione, don’t you dare!”_

_She doesn’t dare._

_The relief and concern storming about in his stomach makes him think maybe he’ll be the one to throw up.  Instead, he steers them both towards a nearby bench.  Without a word, and possibly completely out of it, Hermione drops down onto the seat.  He’s on his knees in front of her, forgetting completely that he’s got on a brand new pair of trousers, and cups her face.  One pat, two pats, and her eyes are open but pained.  Whatever’s going on in his stomach is kicked into high gear, and he’s pretty sure the sight of her like this is making him ill._

_“Listen, hey-” Another pat, and she’s blinking.  “Are you listening?”  Hermione nods, and something in the way he’s looking at her makes her focus.  Her cheeks are burning through his palms.  “Stop doubting yourself.  You’re going to make a damn good lawyer.”_

_“How do you know?”_

_“Because I’m not a masochist,” he huffs and lets go of her face because, otherwise, he’s positive his skin will melt.  “I wouldn’t, on pain of death, accept being your partner if you weren’t a guaranteed win in court.”_

_Hermione’s looking at him a little too closely, eyes narrowed yet pupils blown all at the same time; confounding, as usual.  “Wait…  Is that…”  She lets out a shaky breath, her hands grabbing at his shoulders.  “The room is spinning.”_

_“We’re not in a room.”_

_“Besides the point,” Hermione shoots off, shaking her head at him, which is probably the worst thing she could do.  She’s a leaning tower now, her body ebbing back and forth, and Draco’s pretty sure she’ll topple over at any second now, yet her eyes are locked onto his.  Nothing, not a drunken stupor or gravity will take this moment from her.  “Are you saying… you’ll do it?  Start a firm with me?”_

_Draco grimaces as her talons sink into his shoulder blades.  “Kind of?  Hold on-”_

_“I could kiss you!”  And with that fateful phrase pulled from her lips, the Jenga tower that is Hermione Granger collapses.  Horror petrifies Draco perfectly still as she leans in for what she thinks is an ill-timed, ill-conceived kiss.  In reality, she’s a few inches off, and completely off-kilter, and takes a swan dive for Draco’s shoulder.  It’s a miracle she doesn’t break her nose on impact._

_It’s a miracle Draco doesn’t piss himself._

_“How badly are things spinning?” he asks, laughing nervously.  It’s a great way to disguise the heart attack he’s having for some reason.  Hermione makes no attempt to explain just how badly things are spinning, which in itself is quite the answer.  She’s breathing steadily, though, and still has a mean grip on his shoulders.  Her resolve is ridiculously sturdy, which is part of the reason why he finds himself explaining the terms of their… partnership._

_“You’re skipping a few steps.  First, we’ll be partners at_ a _firm, remember?  And, then, if you’re not a roaring drunk, I’ll consider investing in this theoretical office of yours.”_

_Her face presses into his shirt, and he can feel her grinning.  He finds it’s contagious.  “Really?”  Despite her obvious joy, she sounds skeptical.  “Even though your dad-”_

_“Screw him.”  Draco won’t admit how long he’s been waiting to say that particular phrase.  He resists saying it a few more times, though it’s hard not to scream it out into the night with the day, month, life he’s had.  But he’d be preaching to the choir with Hermione, anyway.  So, instead, he confesses, because he’s pretty sure she won’t remember any of this in the morning and so none of it can be held against him.  Doesn’t take away how true it is, no matter whether or not he’ll go through with it._

_Most likely, he won’t.  He’s a coward that way.  Still,  “I want what you pitched: a fresh start, no bureaucratic bullshit, no business ties.  Just us-”_

_“- and Harry -”_

_“- if you say so,” Draco begrudgingly accepts.  “Just us, maybe Harry - if he passes, which I doubt he will - and the cases we choose.  I want that freedom, because you pitched and knocked the idea right out of the par-”_

_“Is that a sports analogy?”  Hermione sounds ready to vomit for real this time, and she buries her face in the crook of his neck.  All she had to do to shut him up was that, just that.  “Don’t,” she breathes, and some of the alcohol she’s drunk is poured onto his skin somehow, making him feel light and odd.  “You don’t do sports.  You don’t do analogies.  Don’t.  You’re making the room spin.”_

_He wants to tell her that she's the one making it spin, for both of them.  Instead, he laughs and shuts up.  Lets her take deep breaths and focus on forcing the earth to stop moving.  Knowing her, he’s sure the earth will comply.  He hopes it will, because she’s still pressed into his skin, the subtle brush of her lips against his collarbone enough to make the earth spin at hyperspeed.  Yet, he isn’t actually keen on having it stop.  He’s not hoping for that at all.  He’s just really hoping she won’t throw up, and praying she won’t remember anything from tonight.  Except, maybe, this:_

_“You’re going to be an amazing lawyer, because that’s what you’ll always be.  Amazing.”_

From the looks of it, she still doesn’t remember a single moment of that night, which is just fine because it’s enough for him to remember.  It’s more than enough, actually.  Every _why?_ he’s asked himself is silenced when he thinks of how they used to be, on a rare night like that one and on days which were much less alcohol-driven.  Hermione Granger had once jokingly wanted to kiss him, with no internet personas cloaking who they were from one another.  And had he not royally screwed things up between them, neither of their internet personas would have even existed and quite a bit of kissing would’ve long been had.

But alas.

“Just a chat and a drink.”  He could be begging.  He’s not quite sure what he’d sound like begging but this might be it.  Hermione hears it, because her eyebrows twitch, as he’s seen her do in court when she’s sympathizing with particularly pitiful testimonies.  He almost feels sorry for himself.

“Alright,” she caves.  “One drink.  And I mean one, because we’re in court tomorrow and I’m still convinced you’re trying to pry something out of me.”

He might’ve been begging, but she’s definitely threatening with the knife she has pointed at him.

“Alright,” Draco secedes with a relieved laugh.  He’s already getting up from the table, not wanting to test the boundaries anymore than he already has.  He sees the singular win and seizes it quite happily.  “One drink, and I’ll prove that’s not what I’m up to.”

“But you _are_ up to something.” Despite the alarming sharpness of her accusation, there’s a hint of amusement in the slight curve of her lips.  It’s nothing, but it’s enough to press the softest, teasing reminder of a kiss to his neck.  He smiles.

“I plead the fifth.”

 


End file.
